


Come Undone

by strix_alba



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, M/M, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strix_alba/pseuds/strix_alba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"My name is Will Graham," he recites. "It’s 6:30pm, and I am in your kitchen, preparing to be, uh." He surveys their setup, and his mouth twists into a smile. "Eaten."</i> </p><p>(Vivisection and cannibalism as sex, because nothing says 'I love you' like letting your psychiatrist play around with your internal organs. PWP.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Undone

**Author's Note:**

> This is total, unrepentant id-fic. Inspired by a combination of [this art](http://robinsketchblog.tumblr.com/post/48571763306) and subsequent IMs about said art with M, who also provided alpha and beta critique.
> 
> Warning for people who actually study human squishy bits: my knowledge of them is based on pictures and dissections of fetal pigs, but I did my best.

The kitchen, Hannibal assures him, is always properly sanitized before and after every meal, so it will be perfectly safe to work there. 

“Safe,” Will repeats dubiously, and Hannibal does not respond. He guides Will past the refrigerator towards the gleaming counter in the middle of the room; Will can feel the sweat gathering under his arms and on his back as he swings himself up onto the counter and then sits there, hands gripping the edge as if it will anchor him when everything else has failed. After several seconds in which his eyes flicker over the cabinets and stovetops and the sausage grinder stored neatly in a corner, he looks at Hannibal and allows his hands to flex and relax. There is his anchor, Will reminds himself, and the faint ringing in his ears falls away. Hesitation gone, he reaches up to remove his shirt.

Hannibal waits until he has stripped down to his boxers to step into his personal space and arrange the materials on the counter next to him. “I am going to inject a local anesthetic here.” His fingers drift to Will’s stomach, where they linger for a breath too long. “It will not be enough to completely dull the pain, merely to make it more bearable,” he continues, drawing back to snap on surgical gloves. Will feels disappointment curdle in his gut at the sight, at the knowledge that there will be no fingerprints underneath his skin; and from the precise way that Hannibal performs the action, he understands that the feeling is shared between them. 

“That sounds – good,” says Will, fighting off the disappointment before it takes him over. “I’ll tell you if it becomes unbearable. You’ll know by the, uh, screaming,” Hannibal raises an eyebrow. For a moment, Will thinks he will smile. Instead, he opens a swab of alcohol and applies it to Will’s stomach, pushing on his shoulder until he is flat on his back.

When he is done, Will relaxes and waits for the anesthetic to set in. He watches Hannibal gathering his materials from around the kitchen: a scalpel, skewers, a flaying knife, butcher’s twine and string; a cutting board. He places the cutting board on the opposite counter and arranges everything else in rows on the counter space above Will’s head. His movements are fluid and practiced. He knows exactly what he needs for the task, and has all of his materials readily available. Hannibal straightens the thin metal skewers. As he withdraws his hand from the counter, his fingers find their way into the damp curls of Will’s hair.

“The anesthetic should have set in by now. How are you feeling?” Hannibal asks. His hand stills, and Will tries not to lean into his touch.

“Fine.”

“Are you ready?”

Will nods.

“Show me.”

“My name is Will Graham,” he recites. “It’s 6:30pm, and I am in your kitchen, preparing to be, uh,” He surveys their setup, and his mouth twists into a smile. “Eaten.”

“Analyzed,” Hannibal suggests.

Will raises his eyebrows. “It’s not analysis. Absorbed; turned into art; appreciated. Analysis is what you do during office hours,”

“Where I analyze you,”

“That’s not what this is about.” He shakes his head.

Hannibal shifts to lean across the counter and retrieves a scalpel. Will’s pulse begins to race at the sight. “No?” The scalpel hovers over his clavicle, over his belly, and then. Hannibal spreads his fingers wide against Will’s chest, and the scalpel bites down just below his collarbone. Will can feel the pain distantly, as though through a very thick blanket; and if he lifts his head, he can see the blood pooling on either side of the blade as it passes through the thin layers of skin and tissue over the bone and towards his shoulders. 

“Tell me more,” Hannibal says, voice maddeningly impartial. He raises the scalpel with a flourish and returns to the center of Will’s chest. “What do you think we are doing?”

“Performing,” he says, breathing hard, The scalpel drags through his skin more quickly than before, making another cut to mirror the first. “Isn’t that right?”

“Very good,” says Hannibal, and if Will didn’t know any better, he would call his expression fond. Hannibal drags the blade down from his sternum until it is nearly even with his hips. The incision is made with deliberate slowness, drawing the process out and giving him an excuse to linger on his skin and study how he will react. Will stares in fascination and forces himself not to move, not to hitch his hips towards the gloved hands cutting him open at the waist.

His resolve to remain immobile and compliant lasts until Hannibal dips his fingers into the incision down his center, penetrating the blanket of anesthesia. Something in him squirms at the touch, as eager to flee from the invasion as he is to lean upwards, welcoming it. Hannibal’s fingers scrape bone as he reaches underneath and peels back his skin. Will can only feel the edges of it, where his sides and shoulders protest being ripped open even if he can’t feel it quite yet. He knows that Hannibal is cataloging his reactions so he gives in to the urge to whimper with pleasure when cold metal skims along the inside of his body and punctures the skin. Hannibal slides the thin piece of metal through the cloth underneath Will, pinning him open against the counter like a butterfly. He looks away from his ribs as they are exposed before him, cream-colored against the bright red of his lungs, and catches sight of the way that Hannibal is looking at him. His gaze is predatory, and his breathing is ragged as though he can hardly contain himself.

“Go ahead,” Will says. He eyes the lines of Hannibal’s neck. A tendon twitches there.

Hannibal runs his hands along the muscles of his stomach, and Will hisses through his teeth. His movements are delicate, pressing here and dragging there: testing his boundaries, finding the lines along which to cut the best loin and the best filet. When he picks up the scalpel again, Will is only mostly sure that he won’t make use of this knowledge, but he continues with his exploratory examination of his insides. The cut that he does make is in the wrong place — Will can feel it — and done too carefully to be meant to harm.

Still. “You could kill me right now,” he says, because he cannot pass up the opportunity to test boundaries of his own. “Reach up … pull out my lungs, my heart …”

Hannibal looks up from inspecting the new wound he has made. “Yes, I could.” He reaches in with both hands, and Will fights for what little composure he has left. Hannibal curls his fingers around a coil of intestine covered by fine transparent membrane, lifting it out so that Will can watch him work.

“But that wouldn’t be interesting, would it?” Will grins at him through gritted teeth. Sweat runs down his temples, threatening to drip into his eyes. “A performance needs an audience. And an audience like me—” He breaks off with a groan as Hannibal moves aside the bundle of his intestines to stroke his kidneys with reverent bloody hands. “How many opportunities do you have for that, Dr. Lecter? What do you feel?”

Hannibal goes still, eyes sliding shut as though savoring a particularly delicious bite of steak, and hands motionless in Will’s stomach. “You would know,” he says. 

Will thinks he can hear a note of unsteadiness in his voice that settles below his stomach and curls with heat. He doesn’t have time to relish his victory before Hannibal pulls him back in, threading his hands up and down and through Will as though intending to reshape every piece of him. Will slams the back of his skull against the counter, breathing in shallow gasps. He focuses on the movements of his hands as they rummage through his body, caressing him from the inside out. They ghost over curves of organs and the tissues knitting them together, pick him apart and find the tender parts: the effects of too much alcohol in his twenties on his liver, the palpitations of his diaphragm, the emptiness of his stomach. He is careful not to do any irreparable damage, not yet, but he is testing the waters. 

He pauses to make a mental note, occasionally curling his fingers around something inside of Will that makes him lock his knees to keep from squirming. His hands are red and when he strains upwards, he can feel the tug on his skin and he leaves warning handprints on his throat and low on his stomach as he restrains him to keep him from damaging himself because Hannibal can’t control the rate at which he crumbles if Will tears himself apart; and Will smirks and pushes against his hands.

“Do you have an anchor?” Hannibal asks. 

Will seizes the hand resting at his throat in answer and grips it tight, just to devour the way that Hannibal’s eyes flicker and his back straightens before he can control his reaction. His impassive mask slides back on as quickly as it was disrupted, but it doesn’t matter: he understands, he understands. He knows how much of the body he can remove to reshape without destroying, and he knows how much of Will he can possibly take and how much of his own design he must pour back in to fill in the gaps. He lingers for a moment more on the possibilities contained by the ribs, testing his own self-control and his desire to consume every part of his body with his desire to consume every part of his mind. 

Beneath him, Will releases his wrist. Hannibal hesitates, unsure for the first time of how to proceed, and Will’s heartbeat quickens. It only lasts a moment, and then he sets aside his calculations in favor of dragging his fingertips along the inside of Will’s skin for no other reason than to see how Will reacts. He whimpers with pleasure, mimicking the motion with his own hands; and when he reaches up to leave bloody trails down Will’s neck from jaw to shoulders, it is enough to make him tip his head back and groan aloud. 

His thoughts blur, awash with pain and arousal, so much so that he doesn’t have attention to spare for the fresh bite of cold metal inside him, not until he feels an odd slipping sensation just under his ribcage and opens his eyes to see Hannibal looking down with intense concentration. Will follows his gaze, rapt as the scalpel slides into his body. The movements that he makes are delicate and precise; he is careful not to injure Will more than necessary, but those are still his hands shifting around inside of Will and slicing through his veins, blood trickling over the backs of his hands. Pain radiates out to the edges of his limbs, and he watches with sweat on his forehead and when he breathes it is with as little movement as possible. He doesn’t speak, not now — they are too close. He grinds his teeth and peels his lips back in a tight smile. Hannibal scoops one hand under his spleen and Will carefully, carefully lifts one arm to grasp for his sleeve, his shirt, anything. His breath nearly stops as Hannibal sets aside the scalpel and lifts out a piece of Will, disconnecting it from the rest of his body and claiming it as his own. Hannibal cradles it in both hands. He brings it closer to his face and inhales. Will feels his own lungs expand, bringing with them the acidic smell of antiseptic and blood and sweat.

“Cheap aftershave?” he asks, choking out the words unevenly.

Hannibal runs his tongue along the smooth dark surface. “Quite the contrary. You will be a delicacy,” he says, and when Will comes he does so fighting to keep himself from surging upwards to meet something besides the empty air. He shuts his burning eyes and clenches his fists, but he cannot prevent the shouts that escape him. His whole body burns, electricity running through him and freezing him in place with the image of his blood on Hannibal’s lips caught behind his eyelids.

When he can move, Will relaxes his limbs in increments. The mindless haze of orgasm seeps away slowly, replaced by the prickling of pain at the open edges of his skin. He does not open his eyes. He is distantly aware of Hannibal removing the pins holding him down and setting them aside, perhaps licking them clean and savoring the metallic taste; and then sliding his boxers off his legs, cleaning him with gentle strokes of a towel. Will tries to say something, some acknowledgement of gratitude. It comes out as an unintelligible murmur and Hannibal shushes him, stroking his hair and face as he drapes the skin back over his chest and picks up his needle and thread. Slowly, Will’s world narrows down to the sounds and the muffled sensation of sewing. There is a pinch, then several small tugs, and then a snick of the scissors as they cut each stitch. And all the while, Hannibal murmurs to him, soft careful words of praise. Will drinks in the current of his voice without paying attention to the content. He lies motionless, warmth seeping back into his body.

When Hannibal cuts the thread on the last of the stitches, near to his left shoulder, it takes Will a few seconds to remember how to breathe. He only notices when the next tug on his skin doesn’t come, when the only sound remaining is the low electric hum of the refrigerator.

Hannibal lays a hand on his shoulder. “Will. Breathe.”

Languidly, he imagines being held together by bare hands; he imagines diving down and using those same hands to tear himself apart.

“Will.”

Will opens his eyes with a final shudder, the cocoon broken. He stares up into Hannibal’s face, body singing as their eyes meet. He cannot tear his gaze away as Hannibal strips off his latex gloves and leans in to cradle his face.

“What do you feel?” he asks.

Will grins at him, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and the back of his neck. His chest is on fire and his skin is no longer stretched open in front of him, and still all he can do is bare his teeth and wait for the anesthesia to wear off enough for him to feel the work of someone else’s hands in his body.

Something flickers behind Hannibal’s eyes. “Tell me your name.”

“Will Graham.” He nearly laughs. He is Will Graham, and he doesn’t know or care what time it is, because he is lying on a cold metal counter in Hannibal Lecter’s kitchen with Hannibal Lecter’s hands on him _(in him)_ and the fever in his brain has set the rest of his body on fire with delight.

“And how are you feeling, Will Graham?”

It takes a monumental effort to hold back laughter. “Good,” he says. “I feel good.”

Hannibal drops his gaze for a moment. “I’m glad to hear it. You were magnificent.” He swipes his thumb across Will’s cheek, wiping away tears. Will doesn’t remember crying.

“Really,” he says, without conviction.

“One of the best,” Hannibal assures him. He slides his hand to the back of Will’s neck and touches his lips to his forehead. 

Will’s chest twists painfully in a way that has everything and nothing to do with the incisions carved into his skin. He reaches up without thinking as Hannibal pulls back, stopping him with a hand to his jaw. His gaze skitters to the narrow gap between the raised sutures on his own chest and the white overcoat several inches above.

“Will?” asks Hannibal, and Will arches his back as he pulls him down to kiss him, laughing at last. He has no expectations, no plan beyond _doing_ : this is not part of their arrangement. But Hannibal allows it, smoothing the hair from Will’s forehead with one hand, lifting him from the counter with the other. Will drags himself closer, pressing angry new wounds against his body and anchoring himself with the pain. The shredded tumult in his chest starts to subside. Hannibal steadies him, gripping him hard and kissing him as though he is something precious. He tastes like the blood that he licked off the pins just before he put Will back together again, and Will drinks it in.

“Sorry,” he says, when he pauses for air. “I – I wasn’t —”

Hannibal regards him serenely. He disentangles his hand from Will’s hair. “For what?” And when Will fumbles for words to describe what, exactly, just happened, he adds, “I have my inclinations, and you have yours. Let us indulge each other.”

Will nods, though he is still not altogether sure what he is doing. He watches Hannibal glide around the room and produce a pillow from seemingly nowhere. He returns to place the pillow under Will’s head, careful to avoid unnecessary movement. When Will is settled, propped up enough to have a clear view of the counters against the wall, Hannibal touches the meeting point of his new stitches one last time before he moves back to retrieve a plate tucked behind a large wok.

“I have already prepared a dinner for you. Crepes with a lemon and caramel filling to start, followed by a mild lamb sausage, if you feel well enough.” He shows Will the dish and sets it down again, this time moving over to a deep ceramic dish and inspecting the contents. 

“What about you?” Will tracks his movements around the kitchen with his eyes.

“I have ready a marinade consisting primarily of a red wine reduction, shallots, and sage, and I will be preparing other dishes while the meat marinates. Would you like to watch?”

“I don’t think I have much choice,” says Will.

Hannibal studies him. “True.” He walks over to a set of cards on a ring, flips through them, and plucks out several. He presents it to Will as though handing him an invitation. “If you would read out the ingredients. Yours is the last one.”

Will accepts the cards, recognizing them as an offer of another kind of intimacy. He pulls out the final recipe with mild curiosity. He scans the card, and his head begins to pound.

“This is a recipe for heart,” he says.

Hannibal brushes his knuckles from Will’s temple to the hollow at the base of his neck. Will shivers. “I modified it. Read me the ingredients for the artichokes, if you don’t mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> The whole concept is absurd anyway, so I disregarded a lot of medical procedures that made me cringe while writing this — monitoring heart rate and blood pressure, the practical side of cutting someone open like that and their chances of infections or other complications where the spleen is removed; drainage afterwards; muscle damage; a whole host of other things related to mucking around with someone’s organs the way that I described. See also: sterilization procedures, post-op care, disinfectants, proper hygienic procedures. I made up the marinade on the spot, and now I want to make it when I get back to the states. Don’t try this at home.


End file.
